


Silence

by shittershutter



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 04:59:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13116537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittershutter/pseuds/shittershutter
Summary: Sharing the bed with someone like Juice is the most intense, fragile and beautiful thing. It’s something he wouldn’t wish on anyone, too.





	Silence

**Author's Note:**

> * I'm still running this kind of AU where Juice's survived the prison experience and Chibs had nothing to do with it.
> 
> * And I've made myself sad. I am sorry. 
> 
> * There are mentions of past (canon) non-con, not really graphic. The present is all love, though.

He answers because the man asks him somewhat nicely, with genuine interest and all. He asks what it’s like to put his dick in the dark bottomless depths of an ass the entire county prison has been to before him on a regular basis and it’s a legitimate question. He can understand the concerns. 

Their club is not what you would call a regular small town club, given the blood-filled past and strangely optimistic future with Venus and Juice on board. Every once in a while a clueless prospect or a scorned business affiliate comes along with the inquiries that could get a curious fucker shot in the head back in the day. 

Chibs’ presidency, to Happy’s dismay, is relatively bloodless. Chibs is a big believer in education, communication, and moderate bodily harm when everything else fails, so he waves Happy off and turns on his bar stool to face the curious fucker in question. 

"They stitched him up. Aye, they did." Chibs says and dear Christ does the moment of honesty feels good against his tongue. “So it feels bloody marvelous”. 

Then he slams the man's head against the counter, props him against it and gestures at his own glass to get another drink. A minor drug dealer by the look of him, fresh and new. Unaware that Juice’s ass, just like the rest of him, is off limits these days. 

“They had to stitch him up,” he repeats against the rim of the glass like the man can hear him and shakes his head to get the haunting visuals out of his brain.

 

====

 

Juice tells him once when he's high as hell, green dragons dancing in his eyes, with the distant mechanical snort he details the misadventures of his rectum, and Chibs just listens stroking the tender flesh of his inner thigh warm to the touch as his fingers grow colder and colder. 

It's one of those evenings when they both aren't sure if Juice lets him fuck him or not in the end. Sometimes it's an enthusiastic yes; sometimes it's a paralyzing no. And then there are days when he's too twitchy to make up his mind on the spot, so Chibs caresses his skin, slow, methodical and waits for an answer. 

Listening to the prison stories in the meantime, mind you. 

"Wish I were there," is all he can say. 

"They'd make you watch," Juice says back. "You know they would. Unless you are into that kind of entertainment.”

It's the most emasculating thing Chibs can imagine. Violating the other half of you when you cannot do jack shit about it. And after, you can't take it back. 

He's been through it twice, with Fiona at first, and there is no cumulative wisdom to gain from that experience. What you’re left with is this breathtaking feeling of falling in complete darkness, with no end to that fall in sight. 

 

====

 

Sharing the bed with someone like Juice is the most intense, fragile and beautiful thing. It’s something he wouldn’t wish on anyone, too. 

You don’t want to be sleeping with a person who can disappear in the middle of the act; who dissolves right in front of your very eyes. Cold fingers, glassy eyes and a mouth slightly open to get in some air through the weak gasps. You are left with the shell of a man — and a painfully erect dick as well which is wildly inappropriate, but it takes time for the damn thing to catch up and go down. 

You freak the fuck out the first few times. Shaking him, calling his name and being generally ineffective and messy. Then you develop a strategy, a series of steps you repeat to calm yourself to avoid punching holes through walls in desperation. You cover him with the blanket, go to the bathroom and howl through the water running down the drain like a useless bitch you are until you are hoarse, until you can breathe again through the burning in your chest. Until this intricate montage of indignities you weren’t there to prevent stops running through your brain.

Then the morning comes, and he wakes up like nothing ever happened, and you don’t fucking talk about it. 

Chibs can’t tell what wounds him more — that his boy knows what happens to him occasionally and pretends nothing really does or that he retreats so far into himself that it’s that just a dream, a missing chunk of reality he’s unaware of.

He wishes Juice would fight him instead. When he slides into the kid’s peripheral vision too abruptly, he wishes he’d get a proper punch not the complete lack of motion when it seems like even the air around them stops circulating. _“It’s me,”_ he wants to scream. _“It’s just fucking me, don’t you see?!”_ And Juice shakes his head a bit too hard and manages a pathetic smile without meeting his eyes. “I know,” he says like he can hear what Chibs is yelling about in his head. He squeezes his hand then, his embarrassment burning the space between them, and leaves the room. And it takes the good ten minutes for Chibs to follow. 

 

=====

 

His boy won’t talk to him, but there are the shrink and the support group to whom he will so Chibs drives him there religiously every Thursday and waits outside until the conversation is done. It’s the loneliest experience, but he grits his molars like Juice does coming here and just plows through.

Chibs waits in the car, watching, as the kid talks to some cult member looking bitch with a long braid and even a longer skirt, a victim of the father or the countless uncles she is, maybe both. Then they hold each other and cry. 

He drums his fingers against the wheel and looks on. He understands the appeal then — the calming effect of slamming the pads against the leather until they’re sore — and he is jealous of her in a way. Juice shares it with her in a way he never tries, never can with Chibs no matter how tightly he holds him at night. 

It’s a lot of tears, too. He’s halfway through the Top 20 on the radio when Juice is finally done, wiping himself with a sleeve and blinking furiously until there is no moisture left under his eyelashes. 

He has the annoyingly brave face on when he gets in the car, all swollen and red, and when he kisses Chibs hello there is so much salt on his lips, it’ll take a bottle of tequila to wash it off.

“Well, that was productive,” Juice croaks, his voice shaky with all the sobbing. Chibs tightens his mouth and drives home. 

 

=====

 

Juice’s shrink catches him in the parking lot once — he’s seen her creeping around for months, looking at him through the window — and she gives him a card and a careful shoulder squeeze. 

Chibs has a particular look about him, the one that tells people not to touch him without permission unless a broken jaw is something they’re actively considering to acquire, but Juice must’ve told her some fluffy shit about him given how comfortable she is in his personal space. It’s a support group for the partners of the victims — and while he doesn’t make an effort even to pretend the card is going into his pocket and not into the trashcan nearby, he chokes a little at what it implies. 

That what Juice is going through is his as well. 

She tells him he can talk to someone, not necessarily in a clinical setting. It’s banal as fuck but it does the job, she says. Which is why Chibs is having this conversation now, basically. A monologue rather, but it’ll do. 

 

=====

 

He lets the kid manhandle him the way no man or woman ever did, nails and teeth and squeezing fingers. Falling back onto the mattress and letting Juice climb over, all muscular limbs and burning eyes. 

“Take it,” his brain chants. “By god, if it helps take all of me”. And it’s not like there is much of him left, the emotionally void old busted carcass he is. Chibs is not under any illusions that the chunks of his old meat Juice digs his fingers in will ever be enough to repay, to rebuild. But the kid huffs, his breaths short and scorching hot, as he lowers himself down and down Chibs’ dick, until they are joined so completely it’ll take a serious effort to separate, and he looks satisfied with what he’s got. 

Then he pushes up and slams himself down, no mercy for Chibs’ hips whatsoever, no consideration for all the shit he’ll get from Tig for walking a bit funny the next day. And he roars — the sound he’d never associate with the kid, not in a million years — as he comes untouched, staining their bodies up to the jaws. Chibs is left to helplessly follow, hypnotized by sight in front of him, beautiful and terrifying. He pumps him full with everything he has until it’s leaking out with all the lube and the sweat. He can’t bring himself to care about the mess — the mess is what they are. 

And the next night Juice is soft like a kitten, climbing onto his lap, soothing the bruises he wears like the badges of honor with sticky kisses. Chibs wraps his arms around the kid’s waist to position his thighs around his in a way to make their dicks rub together to decide if they should proceed with the rest. They’re both still sore, so it’s fine like this, sharing the joint and snorting nonsense into each other’s faces as their bodies move slowly against each other, layers of clothing soothing the way. 

But then Juice starts peeling their clothes off, and it’s good as well. He wants Chibs to slick him this time, wants him to hold him by the hips and lower him down gently until they are one as his dick is leaving a thin wet stripe down the older man’s belly.

He hums and hides his face against the side of Chibs’ neck as the man arranges himself so he presses against the spot inside that makes his cock strain and jump a little. 

“Look at you, all shy all of fucking sudden,” Chibs mumbles against his ear, kissing it, as he pushes up a little to get them into the awkward rhythm. 

“Do your job, old man,” Juice snorts, mouth hot against his shoulder.

By the breathy sounds he makes, by the steady warm fingers on his skin, without seeing his face Chibs knows the kid is there, present and alive.

Feeling that makes him want to go on for as long as it takes. 

 

=====

 

Chibs blinks against the light stinging in his eyelids, the rows of bottles coming into focus in front of his face.

“It seriously made me feel better,” he mumbles thoughtfully, genuinely surprised. “Talking it through, I mean. Thanks, man.” He slaps the shoulder next to him and gets up with a bit of an effort. 

“I think I just got my gestalt completed or some shit."

He tips the bartender generously, for the general mess and the upcoming ambulance call, and heads out. 

“Intensive care or general admission, boss?” Happy calls out after him. Chibs stops to consider, his knuckles buzzing out of old instinct. He has to rub them to get the feeling out. 

“General admission.” He can’t turn around to face the shattered look on Happy’s face. “You get to decide yourself the next time,” he promises and leaves with a warm feeling of gratitude to the body Happy slams against the counter. A broken nose and a concussion are the limits of that gratitude, but he’s fairly certain the man, whoever he is, won’t push it the next time they meet. 

He leans against his bike listening to the shuffle of Happy finishing up and texts Juice he’s on his way, enjoying the strange lightness in his chest.


End file.
